The ExPats: Living By Chance
by O.G. Green
Summary: Pierce and McManus used to work for Glazer's organization but they're freelance now. The 21k triad wants their heads and the rest of the Ex-Pats too after being ripped off in an airport heist. Watch the lead fly!
1. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

AN: With the exception of my original characters, everything else is the sole intellectual property of IO Interactive, Eidos interactive, and Square Enix. This story takes place two weeks after the events as depicted in Kane & Lynch 2: Dog Days. Please read 'n review but no flames, ok?

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie…

Riff Raff's nightclub

The French Concession district

Shanghai, People's Republic of China

I have two vices left to me in my old age: a never-ending thirst for good beer and wet, sloppy blowjobs preformed by girls more than half my age. So as I sat drinking a cold bottle of Tsingtao in the dimly-lit, roped off VIP lounge my tool was getting worked over by an almond-eyed, barely legal angel. Her little black dress was bunched around her waist as I fondled her breasts. I think she said her name was Mui; my memory wasn't what it used to be. It's worse after twelve beers or so. It was when I was spewing my load of jizz down her throat that I noticed the group of 21k _goo wat_ _jai_, triad boys, enter the club. Even an aging killer like me can't catch a break. I kissed Mui on the forehead, shoved a thousand-Yuan note in her g-string, and then told her to clear out. After wiping myself off and zipping myself up, it definitely was time for some old-school John Woo bloodletting…

The 21k is the second-largest Triad in the world boasting twenty-thousand members split into about thirty subgroups. While they are mostly known for large-scale drug trafficking, they also dabble in assassination, money-laundering, and racketeering. I knew these particular assclowns were looking for me. I also knew why: the 21k lost over five and a half million Yuan in heroin in a brutal smash 'n grab robbery at the Shanghai Pudong International Airport. A few dozen crooked cops and goons got a severe case of lead poisoning. 5.45x39mm hollow-points fired from an AK-74U carbine can fuck up your posture. If they were looking for me then they were also searching for the rest of the Ex-Pats. Sliding out the Taurus shot-shell revolver from its spring-clip holster, I wondered for the umpteenth time why I didn't bail out from Shanghai like those two cocksuckers Kane and Lynch. My ass wouldn't be swinging in the breeze right now asking to get reamed.

Still get migraines thinking about those losers. How could that balding, fatty psychopath screw up what was supposed to be a simple deal? I'll clue you in on that later. I had to focus on the pack of hyenas that spread out through Riff Raff's. These imbeciles were armed with sub-machine guns, Ingram MAC-10s and Heckler & Koch MP5s. Goddamn amateurs, always using the wrong tools for the job. There were too many bystanders on the dance floor, the second-floor bar, and here in the VIP section. It was also bad for business because both the Ministry of Public Security and the People's Armed Police would both get involved if too many citizens were shot in a firefight between criminals. I watched them for a few minutes more then made my first move.

Crouching down, I crabbed-walked towards the landing where the first goon stationed himself. The dj just put on Cascada's "Evacuate the Dancefloor", the bass from the speakers made the whole club tremble. It also covered the bark of my Taurus revolver when the .410 gauge shot-shell obliterated the goon's skull. Grabbing the corpse, I searched it and was rewarded with some decent loot. I relieved him of a Samsung cell phone, car keys, and roll of thousand Yuan notes. Better yet was the Ingram MAC-10 he was carrying. Not only was it loaded with a full thirty rounds, there were a couple extra magazines. Heh, heh. The other assclowns were still searching the club.

Dumping the body in an empty lounge chair, I picked up an empty bottle of snow beer then smashed the second goon as he exited the restroom. I used the remains to slash open his throat. Before the artery had a chance to spray and ruin my Hugo Boss suit, I spun him around ramming his face into the wall. Plaster puffed out as the wall broke from the impact. Blood seeped down the sides of his face, pooling by his wingtips. I removed a nickel-plated 9mm Beretta and slipped the pistol into the waistband at the small of my back. It would be only a matter of time before these morons figured out my game plan…

Sneaking out of a crowded nightclub is a lot like swimming in a pool filled with piranhas. You have the watch the ebb and flow of the crowd then decide which way you need to flow with the current. If you plan your route correctly, then you can elude your pursuers. If you don't, then the piranhas have a feast day chewing on your sorry ass.

Thinking that moving through the crowded dance floor, with all those bodies writhing in aural bliss, was a smart move as I made my way across.

I should have known better. The piranhas were going to feast.

Trying to avoid a whirling dervish in black jeans and halter top spinning around like a helicopter, I bumped into Tzu Lin. Just what I needed at this moment. The fucking Butcher of Guangzhou in all his terrible glory, dressed in a conservative Savile Row grey pinstripe suit. I didn't hesitate in using a flat-palm strike into his face. Unfortunately for me, he shifted his head in time so instead of an instant kill I just broke his nose. The sickening crunch of cartilage and muscle being destroyed was lost in the air as people continued to dance around us. Shifting my weight I drove my fist into his solar plexus, Lin's eyes bulging out as the air was forced out of his lungs. I was about to deliver the coup d' grace with my Taurus revolver when I saw the muzzle flash of a sub-machine gun. Gave 'ol Tzu a solid kick to the balls before I dove to the floor.

9mm Full Metal Jacketed rounds buzzed through the air. Lights shattered, alcohol splashed out, glass burst into clouds of flying shrapnel. Screams got louder as people were shredded, bodies torn apart by gunfire. The crowd stampeded off the dance floor, the herd wild-eyed looking for any avenue of escape. I rolled over onto my back, the Taurus roaring away as .410 shotshells and .45 LC rounds smacked into goons. When the revolver clicked on an empty chamber, I threw the useless handgun into a nearby goon's face. In the moment the revolver cracked the assclown in the forehead, I drew the Beretta and squeezed the trigger twice. Two blooms of red blossomed on his silk shirt as he crashed into a table. Throwing myself sideways, I narrowly missed getting ventilated by another goon with a Norinco Hawk semi-auto shotgun. He got off two blasts that shattered furniture, the pellets creating micro-craters in the floor. I aimed the Beretta then double-tapped him in the chest. Scanned the club for more targets, didn't find anyone else who was in a hurry to meet their ancestors. Figured it was time to _didi-mau_ before the fine officers from the Ministry of Public Security arrived and decided to take me into custody. I stumbled out of the club, looked around, and then sprinted down a nearby alley. Fifteen minutes later, totally winded and gasping for air, I pulled out my cell phone. Three rings later, a gruff voice with an Irish brogue answered.

"Pierce? This better be bloody important, me boyo. You're interrupting…"

I didn't give McManus a chance to cuss me out.

"You goddamn stupid Mick man-whore! Quit thinking with prick for two seconds and listen up! The 21k figured out who ripped them off and they're sending Tzu Lin to sort us out. We got to get word to the rest of the Ex-Pats or we'll all be chum in Taihu Lake…"

What had started out as a beautiful evening was rapidly turning into a goatfuck.


	2. Who's Your Buddy?

Who's Your Buddy…

By Zongshan Park

Mc Manus's apartment

Shanghai, People's Republic of China

Later that same evening…

It took me the better part of an hour getting to McManus's place. As I said before, when the public gets caught in the crossfire, both the MPS and the PAP take a very serious interest especially when the Triads are involved. Ran a Surveillance Detection Route to see if any undercover cops spotted my ungraceful exit from Riff Raff's. After switching trains twice on the Shanghai Metro, found an empty taxi on Yanan Zhong Lu. I used a lock pick and some old-fashioned elbow grease to boost myself a set of wheels. Riff Raff's had a decent CCTV setup; I knew it was only a matter of time before some sharp-eyed police inspector reviewed those recordings and got a good look at my mug. I needed to get off the streets pretty damn quick or I might become a permanent guest in Quing Pu prison.

As I passed a store front window displaying fine jewelry and Rolex watches, my reflection stared back at me. A worn, world-weary face with a pug nose that knew too much about the heart of darkness Joseph Conrad wrote about. Short, spiky black hair starting to turn grey that got buzzed twice monthly by an ancient celestial in Tongli. A lean, hard body attired in a black Hugo Boss suit sans tie. Hitting my early forties and wondering how the hell I fucked up so bad that living in a Communist controlled nation was preferable to living back in Chicago. Almost forgot the part about knee-capping the governor of Illinois, sodomizing his mistress, and putting the video on YouTube which received four million hits world-wide before it was taken down by the FBI. Yeah, I told you my memory wasn't what it used to be.

I pulled the BYD F3 four-door taxi into an alley behind McManus's apartment. If it wasn't for his live-in girlfriends, sisters too, I don't think the dumb Mick bastard could keep his place clean. He had other apartments before and all of 'em were sties. Even pigs wouldn't lay in those cesspools.

Exiting the vehicle, I scanned the street then the building's entrance. Too quiet for a Friday night.

The Ingram MAC-10 was slung underneath my suit jacket, the extra mags stuffed in the pockets.

I checked the nickel-plated Beretta 9mm and racked back the slide. Wasn't too sure about what kind of reception the _goo wat jai _that I knew had to be lying in wait for me but it would be definitely not be welcome at all. Felt the perspiration underneath my shirt and my stomach rumbled, a reminder that I hadn't eaten anything since lunch. Punched the speed-dial on my cell, McManus's ringback tone blaring Motley Crue's "Kickstart My Heart". The paddy jackass picked up on the fourth ring.

"Hey fucker," trying to sound humorous, "still trying to get the sisters to do ATM?"

"Screw you, Pierce. You're just an aging flamer who can't keep it up longer than a minute or two. Ever hear of Viagra? That little blue pill just might jump-start your non-existent sex-life, boyo. It even has Hefner's seal of approval. Just ask those Dahm triplets…"

McManus snickered at his jest. He was just as much a pussy-hound as I was, except I had better skills in bed. Ironically, we had met in Phuket, Thailand on a hit that was double-booked. Realizing that our employer had intended to double-cross us, we teamed up instead. A few dozen corpses and a raging inferno or two later, we made off with a couple of million dollars (U.S.) and blew a fortune on booze and even more barely legal beauties. If we paid more attention to Charles Schwab instead of coke, both of us would've been retired by now. God had given us a talent for mayhem and not much else. Go figure.

"I plan on it, you cocksucking piece of shit. Got a bottle of Redbreast whiskey for you. Want me to bring it up? Then I'll show you how a real man bangs women. I'll fuck those sisters of yours so hard and so deep, they'll forget your name asswipe!" My smile just got wider. I flicked the safety off of the Beretta.

"Come on up, Pierce. I'm getting a fierce thirst." The line went dead. Snapping my cell phone shut, I turned around back into the alley. The show was about to start and I intended to kick things off with a bang. Literally. I opened the rear passenger door of the taxi and took a pillow that had Disney's Mulan on it. Silently closing the door, I crouched down and leaned out to take a peek.

Found 'em all on the first try.

These dumbshits must have been 49ers, ordinary members of the 21k Triad. Bottom-feeders jostling for scraps from the more senior members. Two of 'em were guarding a couple of BMW 3-series sedans. Car doors were open indicating the dumbshits had just arrived and probably caught McManus with his schlong out. The guards had cheap suits and even worse knock-offs of Steve Madden shoes. The only thing not cheap about 'em were the SIG SG 552 carbines they carried. Needed to get closer fast but without alerting the others. Luckily for me a bus was passing through and I shadowed it for awhile until I was positioned behind the BMW. Slipped the Beretta back in my waistband, took out my Emerson Persian Tactical folding knife.

These two were having a smoke and bullshitting to pass the time, a big no-no when they're supposed to be looking out for a bad-ass killer and the others are upstairs securing potential hostages. Tossed a rock which broke a car window a few cars down. Watched Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumber argue over who's going to check out the suspicious noise down the street. Tweedle-dumb lost the argument, his head moving back and forth as if on a swivel, his eyes wide with fear. Obviously, not one of Tzu Lin's star pupils. Inched closer to Tweedle-dumber who lit up another Marlboro Red. As soon as his partner was far enough away, I reached up underneath his chin and jerked his head upwards as at angle. Then I savagely brought down the Persian Tactical, severing his vocal chords. Blood spewed from his mouth as he slid down the length of the BMW's hood. Cleaned the knife off, folded it, then clipped it to my pants. Moved on to asswipe number two whose hands were shaking as he checked out empty cars.

I brought the pillow along with me and the Beretta. Waited as he made his way back towards the BMW. Tweedle-dumb was moving past me when I pinned his SIG carbine with my foot, the impact snapping his trigger finger on the receiver. I smacked him with the pillow and squeezed the trigger. Five 9mm FMJ rounds rocketed out of the back of his skull, the report dulled by the stuffing of the pillow. He too slumped against the BMW. Guess the standards to be a brother in the 21k were slipping if this was the best they could recruit. Searched the car. Recovered a duffle bag filled with goodies. A couple of 9mm Glock 17C pistols. A .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver. One Heckler & Koch MP7 sub-machine gun. And a Remington 1100 Tactical 12-guage shotgun. Win.

With plenty of ammunition for all said weapons and two Type-III Kevlar vests. Sweet. Secured one of the vests onto my torso and tossed my suit jacket. Added the Ingram MAC-10 and its magazines to the duffel then continued on my way whistling the theme song to "The Magnificent Seven". Wished I had another beer before I went upstairs…

As I reached the first floor landing, a goon stumbled onto the barrel of the Remington 1100 12- gauge and got blasted into the afterlife for not looking where he was going. As his brains were being sprayed onto the walls, I whipped out the Beretta and emptied the magazine into two more goons. Tossed away the Beretta, readied the shotgun, moved to the next landing. Butt-stroked another minion in the back of the head, the crunch of bone splintering under the impact, the minion's screams heard as he fell to his death from the balcony. Didn't see his partner who popped me twice in the chest with a Browning Hi-Power. Fell onto my back and I returned the favor with a 12-guage shredder round that cut him in half. He was still twitching when I continued upstairs. The rats came out from the planters and started in on his eyeballs. Lost my appetite for eating even though my stomach continued to rumble.

Upon reaching the top floor, the last goon had McManus in a headlock with a Ruger SR-9 pistol aimed at the big Mick's head. McManus was grinning at me although I could tell from the black eye and the bruises on his face that the asswipes tried getting him to reveal where the rest of the Ex-Pats were. I knew 'ol Irish wouldn't give up his mates like this. You couldn't trust this IRA prick with your wallet or your wife, but loyalty ran strong between us. Fuck with one, payback from the other. God help you if u fucked with us both… The last asswipe was yammering in either Cantonese or Mandarin of which I spoke neither. Doesn't everybody know that English is the _lingua franca _of business, illict or not?

"What's he saying Mick?" I kept the Remington leveled at them both.

"Fer fuck's sake, Pierce, you stupid asswipe! Put down the shotgun! Are you trying to get me killed?" McManus gave me a wink. "12-guage buckshot will definitely NOT improve my lovely face! How am I supposed to pleasure the sisters without me tongue?"

The goon was getting agitated. McManus was calculating if I still had the touch. Personally, I was getting tired. The shotgun was getting heavy, so I motioned I was placing it on the ground with my left hand. Triumphant, the goon moved the Ruger SR-9 from McManus's head towards me. Too slow…

Alexander the Great once wrote that speed kills. It made him a success and a legend. Speed made me a successful legend. One of the reasons why my broker kept me on speed-dial when contracts were available. One of the reasons why I was still breathing and so many weren't…

McManus elbowed the goon in the face and busted the idiot's jaw in the process. The big Mick then ducked and rolled out of the way of the sleeve knife I threw underhanded at the goon. Its momentum drove the knife hilt deep into the goon's heart. He tried to utter another phrase but McManus just stomped on face. He wiped his boot on the dead goon's suit.

"It's about time you got here. What did you do? Stop off to bugger a goat?" McManus rubbed my head like I was his favorite nephew. I slapped his hand away and flipped him the bird.

"Yeah, I did asshole." I grinned evilly. "Have you talked to your mother lately?…"


End file.
